


An Offer She Almost Refused

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: snapely_holidays, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-17
Updated: 2010-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious job offer leads Hermione to Romania and brings her back in touch with someone she never expected to see again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Offer She Almost Refused

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written as a gift for cocoachristy in the first round of Snapelyholidays.  
> Disclaimer: The Potterverse is JKR's, not mine. Written for fun, not profit.  
> Pairing: Severus Snape/Hermione Granger (mention of Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley and past Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger)  
> Warnings: EWE, some AU elements, explicit sex between two consenting adults.

Hermione Granger lets her gaze roam over the document for a third time, and frowns. 

With each passing second, she grows more sceptical and wary. Her mother's sound advice from many years ago echoes through her head.

_"When something seems too good to be true, it usually is."_

Honestly, what on earth had she even been thinking? Why hadn't she asked more questions before coming here? Was she really that keen-no, that desperate to leave not only The Burrow but also England behind?

"Yes," a mocking voice in her head replies. For reasons she'd rather not analyse, it sounds uncannily like Headmistress McGonagall's.

The tall, thin man sitting across the table clears his throat. He appears nervous; or is it impatient? 

Well, she really ought to get this over with.

Hermione swallows the sudden lump in her throat. Her mind made up, she decides to finally answer the question that for the past ten minutes has been hanging thickly in the air around them.

"I'm afraid," she begins carefully, struggling not to show even a fraction of the overwhelming anxiety she feels, "that I must decline your offer. I understand your employer's need for… discretion and confidentiality all too well, and obviously I respect his-or, of course, her-decision, Mister Cartwright, but I fear I cannot sign away three years of my life by committing myself to an apprenticeship in a foreign country when I don't even know whom I'll be working for or what it is exactly that I'll be expected to do."

The man frowns and folds his arms in front of him. "I see."

Hermione bites her bottom lip. She's feeling increasingly ill at ease, and not merely because of her own uncharacteristically impulsive behaviour that brought her here, to this moment. 

Something about Alastair Cartwright's demeanour suddenly seems rather threatening; dangerous. She would swear she just saw his eyes flash red, only for a flicker of a second before they went back to hazel.

Determined not to stay in that tiny, badly lit room one moment longer, she abruptly rises from her chair. "I truly am sorry," she says, putting much emphasis on the last word. "Please thank your employer for offering me the opportunity. I do hope you will find someone more suitable than myself."

With that, she all but flees the room and then the house, and she doesn't dare take a breather, or even look back, until she's a safe ten blocks away.

~*~

Hermione doesn't sleep well that night. 

In her narrow, uncomfortable hotel bed, strange dreams plague her, just like they did the night before. 

They're not very different from the ones she had back home, even though they're considerably more vivid. She's bound to remember them in great detail come morning. 

Most of them are about her childhood; happy memories of her parents and the small public school she went to before the Hogwarts letter arrived, but there are also other dreams; ones that seem almost like scenes from some alternate reality, fragments of a life that might have been had she followed the road not taken.

It's a question she's been pondering about a lot these past three years. Would she have been happier had she sent the Hogwarts owl on its merry way and led her life as a Muggle instead?

She wouldn't have met Harry, obviously, but on the other hand, she'd still have her parents by her side and she never would have had to go through that wretchedly painful episode with Ron.

She should have known from the very start that such a relationship could never end well. Friends rarely turn into lovers and then seamlessly revert back to friends again without there being some amount of heartache involved. 

In her case, there was quite a lot of it, and the fact that she still lived at The Burrow where she saw Ron every day didn't help matters. 

After Hermione was forced to muddle her parents' memory and send them both to Australia, Molly and Arthur started to treat her like a daughter. It was a role she gladly accepted at the time, but in the long run, it may have been a mistake, too. It only gave her another reason, if not an actual obligation, to stay with the Weasleys. 

In hindsight, she ended up staying too long. 

Even today, dealing with Ron remains awkward.

So perhaps, even though the job offer has turned out to be a dead end, this trip will be good for her after all. It might still be a fresh start, albeit a different one than originally planned.

Hermione knows she isn't useless. There are other things she can do aside from magic, plenty of things; filing, library work, teaching English, even. It's just a matter of finding the right opportunity, and she's never lacked the determination to look. 

When she wakes up, it's too early in the morning and she doesn't feel terribly rested, and yet she suddenly possesses a sense of clarity she hasn't felt in years. 

There is nothing left for her back in any of the places she once considered home.

Perhaps she should withdraw the money Harry gave her after the war-the money he insisted she accept despite her vehement reluctance to do so-and use it to lay the foundations for a new life.

Perhaps Romania is as good a place to start afresh as any.

~*~

Feeling refreshed and oddly accomplished, Hermione turns the hotel room door key. 

She spent the entire morning walking around the village, with no particular destination in mind. 

She just needed to think, to plan, and gradually, things became increasingly clear.

She'll write Molly later; tell her she'll be staying on for a while; at least until Christmas. After all, she hasn't been abroad in ages. She hasn't been by herself in what feels like an eternity. 

Before the war, she used to thrive on solitude. There existed no such thing at the ever-bustling Burrow, however, so she learned to go without. Which isn't to say she didn't miss it.

She has missed it a great deal, this unconditional independence.

She flicks on the light, and gasps. Her keys fall to the bare stone floor, clattering loudly as they land. The harsh sound echoes off the bare walls, and Hermione stands there motionless, blinking at the strange, unexpected sight that meets her. 

Severus Snape is sitting in the armchair by the window, a small sneer around his thin lips and looking every bit like he owns the place. 

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger," he says dryly, "I believe the time has come for you and I to have a little chat."

~*~

Tea seems like a good idea initially, but they end up settling for coffee instead. The lady who runs the tavern doesn't have any Tetley Earl Grey, or even any Lipton.

"You disappeared after the war," Hermione says, carefully pouring the milk. There's an unmistakable hint of accusation to her tone. She doesn't intend to be unpleasant, but she can't help herself. 

Snape's actions all those years ago were plain rude, not to mention terribly inconvenient and rather embarrassing to boot. She still cringes whenever she recalls the look of irritated horror on the Minister's face.

Severus Snape would be the last of the surviving war heroes to be given a medal and a title; a proper thanks and some actual recognition for everything he did. 

Following Nagini's near-lethal bite, the man had been in a coma for over a year, until one snowy February morning, when he unexpectedly woke up with no lasting injuries or side effects, not even a hint of a headache.

Everyone, including Hermione herself, was relieved and thrilled by this apparent miracle, and the Ministry for its part was quick to react. 

Severus Snape would receive the highest possible honours, they said, and promptly a ceremony was organised, all whistles, bells and the best catering available. 

It was to be a magnificent event; the kind that would be talked about for months, if not years, afterwards. 

However, no one had counted on the guest of honour vanishing without a trace two days before the honouring. 

Inwardly, Hermione still fumes at the selfish lack of consideration of the smirking man currently sitting in front of her; though truth be told, his behaviour probably shouldn't have surprised her back then, nor should the memory do so now. Severus Snape has never been what one might call a 'people person' or the type of man who'd appreciate any kind of public attention.

But still….

"No one knew where you were," she reiterates, hoping to worm some sort of reaction, or better yet, an explanation, out of him. She certainly isn't counting on an apology, never mind an expression of genuine remorse. She isn't that naïve.

Snape's smirk widens. "Well, Miss Granger, it wouldn't have been much of a disappearance if everyone and their Kneazle had been informed of my whereabouts, would it?"

She grits her teeth, struggling not to get upset or take the bait. Clearly, some things never change. 

"Right," she continues, "so you've been here all this time, working on this…"

"…personal project?" he supplies. "Indeed."

She frowns and pauses for a moment, waiting for him to divulge more, but it soon becomes clear that he doesn't intend to; not without some additional prodding on her behalf. She should probably have expected that, too. _Horrible, infuriating man._ 

She clears her throat and decides to try a different approach. "But why did you contact me, Sir?" she asks matter-of-factly. "There are other people whose assistance you could have requested. Draco Malfoy…." She stops abruptly. Maybe she shouldn't be bringing him up. True enough, Malfoy could do with a fresh start, too. Maybe he'd even welcome the money. She imagines life must be very different for him these days. To everyone's astonishment, he and Ginny Weasley eloped after the war, and the last Hermione heard, Draco hasn't spoken to his parents in years. Hermione wonders whether Snape is aware of any of that, but she assumes he must be. 

"Miss Granger," he says, startling her slightly. "What if I were to tell you that I've taken an interest in you specifically?"

She blinks. "A-An interest in me, Sir?" 

For the briefest of moments, another memory comes back to her; or rather, an entire string of recollections; how much she admired this man back at Hogwarts, how much she longed to get his approval, to earn his respect; and then there were those other feelings besides; the kind of thoughts one shouldn't entertain about one's professor. _Surely, Snape couldn't possibly have noticed how… _

"Yes, Miss Granger," he replies. "I have been taking a keen academic interest in you for years. Infuriating though you were in your boundless eagerness to prove yourself, you were also the brightest student of my entire Hogwarts career. This almost made up for the less… agreeable traits of your character."

"Oh," she mutters, embarrassed and angry at both herself and him. Even after all that time, he can still make her feel like a schoolgirl, and a dim-witted one at that.

"Not to mention," he continues, not noticing her sudden discomfort or choosing to completely ignore it, "you always made a point of keeping an open mind towards those who were different. Which is why Mister Malfoy, though adequately competent in his own way, was not my first choice in this case."

Her earlier embarrassment already forgotten, Hermione blinks. "How do you mean?"

"You defended the house-elves, did you not? You believed they ought to be set free?"

She nods slowly, unsure where this is going.

"Well, the… individuals I'm trying to help here are a far cry from elves. They're a lot less helpful, for one thing."

Old habits die hard; Hermione ventures a guess. "Goblins, Sir?"

He slowly shakes his head.

"Purple Parisian Prankster Pixies?" 

"Not quite. Though I still curse the day Miss Lovegood stumbled upon their lair and decided to unleash them on the general populace. It's all fun and games until the cathedral collapses, is it not, Miss Granger?"

Hermione opens her mouth to speak again, but he's not quite finished yet.

"What we are dealing with here are vampires; albeit reluctant ones."

Hermione blinks. A chill runs up and down her spine. "V-Vampires? H-How do you mean, Professor?"

He studies her expression carefully-she's growing paler by the second-and then replies in a slow, almost condescending tone he would use with a first-year, or possibly Neville Longbottom, "I suppose you are familiar with the fact that whilst the war raged through Britain and some parts of continental Europe, certain parties who had declared themselves neutral seized the opportunity to use the chaos to their own advantage; to prey on the weak."

Feeling increasingly more confused and unsettled, Hermione frowns. "I-I'm afraid I still don't know to what you're referring, Sir."

It's Snape's turn to frown. "So you never heard of the werewolf activity in the Yorkshire Dales?"

She slowly shakes her head.

"Three villages were attacked; frequently. Villagers sent numerous missives, desperate cries for help, to the Ministry, but all were ignored. Lack of manpower, or possibly a simple case of severe apathy."

"Oh," Hermione mutters dumbly, too stunned to say anything else.

Snape purses his fingers together. "So am I correct in assuming you're unaware of what happened here as well?"

She hesitates a few moments before answering. She's in Eastern Europe; miles away from where the worst of the blood shed occurred. The war affected the entire wizarding world, that much is true, but most of the fighting happened in Britain, so how does a remote Romanian village fit into all this?

He doesn't wait for her to reach a possible conclusion, but continues in a somewhat morose tone, "When I decided not to be the main attraction of the Ministry's despicable little media circus and left to stay with some acquaintances who happened to inhabit this region, I discovered that in the aftermath of the war, a vampire clan had had themselves a little rampage."

Hermione swallows hard.

"Sadly, I was too late to intervene, but I was still able to help some of the victims, to prevent… what would have otherwise been inevitable. Ever since that day, a small, select team of volunteers and myself have been working diligently to try and find a cure."

Hermione's frown deepens. "A cure for what, Sir?"

"Vampirism," he says simply. 

Her jaw drops. "I-I didn't know that could even be cured," she blurts out.

"At present," he states grimly, "it cannot. However, according to the research we have conducted so far, its symptoms might point to a complex illness; either of the blood or what Muggle science calls the immune system. Of course,"-he sneers disapprovingly-"no one in the wizarding world has ever cared to look at it that way before. It's easier to just reach for the nearest wooden stake or expose the poor bastards to sunlight." He shakes his head. "So, Miss Granger, since you have a critical mind and are lacking in any kind of prejudices against… shall we say, non-human life forms, I was hoping you might be able to assist me in a research and development capacity." 

Hermione doesn't have to contemplate the offer for very long. In truth, vampires do scare her-quite a bit more than she'd admit even to herself at this point-but she cannot deny that is an incredible challenge; maybe even a once in a life time opportunity, given her abysmal lack of formal qualifications. 

Moreover, it's also good, worthwhile work; the sort of thing she might have been doing now had she not opted for a relationship with Ron rather than furthering her education. _Another colossal mistake, that; God, she made so many of them."_

"All right," she finally says. "So what would my work entail, exactly?"

~*~

The following day, in the late afternoon, Hermione checks out of the hotel and moves into Snape's home. 

It's an old, stately villa situated on the outskirts of town. It also serves as the centre of operations.

The building where her job interview took place was merely a decoy; a precaution Snape considered necessary, just in case Hermione wouldn't be coming alone. 

Upon her arrival at the villa, Hermione learns that Cartwright is one of _them_; the group of people Snape terms 'reluctant vampires'. 

She supposes she shouldn't be too surprised. For one thing, it explains why the interview room was completely devoid of daylight. 

"Welcome aboard, Miss Granger." Cartwright's wide smile reflects no irony, but involves far too many teeth to her liking. "I'm very pleased you decided to change your mind. Skilled individuals such as yourself are hard to come by, especially in these parts." 

Hermione swallows thickly, bravely forces a smile and shakes the pale, gangly hand the man offers her.

~*~

Hermione finds she settles in easily. 

The first two weeks she largely spends reading everything she can lay her hands on about vampires and the supposed 'affliction' Snape thinks he might be able to cure.

The more she learns about the specifics, the more she believes he might be right.

There seems to be a sequence of changes that always occurs in a certain way, an easily recognisable pattern each time a person 'turns'. 

Perhaps it might be possible to reverse those changes, to deconstruct them one by one, and gradually reverse the entire process, whilst treating some of the side effects symptomatically; like the extreme and potentially lethal Porphyria no vampire is spared from.

While Hermione gathers knowledge, absorbs it like a sponge just as she did back at Hogwarts, Snape spends his days-and she imagines, a large chunk of his nights-down in the basement. 

He has a large, well-equipped potions lab there. Its doors are always locked, whether he's actually present or not. 

Hermione takes this as a not so subtle hint that he doesn't want to be disturbed, so she swallows her curiosity and never ventures down there. She'd hate to irk him, not when their work relationship is off to such a promising start.

She always takes her lunch in the kitchen; usually sandwiches and soup provided by an elderly elf with a kind smile and a limp. The creature doesn't speak a word of English and yet always seems to know exactly what Hermione's peckish for.

Most days, Hermione eats alone, but sometimes Cartwright joins her, if he's awake. 

Snape encourages the vampires to stay up during the day, even if they remain indoors. He claims it helps keep them in the right mindset; that of a conscientious human being, not a ravenous, bloodthirsty monster.

Cartwright only ever has coffee. He can't stomach anything people consume.

Hermione never asks him what he can stomach, or more precisely, what he lives on. Doing so would be terrible manners and moreover, there are some things even the ever-inquisitive Hermione Granger would really rather not know. 

It doesn't look like Cartwright will come down today. He lives up in the attic. She isn't entirely sure what his task is, but she gets the impression that he's both a guinea pig for Snape's potions and the go-between when it comes to dealing with the other vampires.

Hermione doesn't know how many others there are. Part of her is curious, but she's uncertain whether it would be appropriate to inquire. Maybe in a few weeks, when she feels slightly more secure in her present position, she'll ask Snape for more details; a lot more details. 

Hermione smiles at the elf, mutters "Thanks," and takes a bite off her sandwich; it's egg and cress today. 

As if out of nowhere, a small brown owl flies into the room.

Hermione looks up. "Pig?" she says, blinking.

The bird doesn't stop, however, not even for a snack, just drops an envelope on the table and soars out again.

Hermione frowns. The missive is a letter from Ron. She smiles thinly, thinking that even in writing, this forced camaraderie they have to keep up feels strange, almost outlandish. 

In her mind's eye, she can vividly picture Ron's hunched shoulders and deep frown as he put quill to parchment. She can't but wonder why he even wrote her, too. Most likely, his mother insisted on it. 

Molly means well, but Hermione would like nothing more than to be able to move on. That's a large part of why she's here, after all, to live a life that's all her own.

"Ah," a familiar voice suddenly says, startling her. "Mister Weasley remains rather skilled at the art of self-delusion, I see."

Wide-eyed, Hermione stares at Snape, who's standing in the doorway. His arms are crossed and a strange smirk plays around his lips. 

"I-I beg your pardon?" she blurts out.

"It never would have worked, Miss Granger," he states plainly, like it's another one of his theories he expects her to challenge. 

Her eyes widen further. She wants to tell him to mind his own business-_honestly_, what would he even know about Ron-but she doesn't. Doing so would be quite disrespectful, and maybe they're not even talking about the same thing and she'll only end up looking foolish.

"How do you mean, Sir?" she asks carefully. 

"You are a bright, intelligent young woman, Miss Granger," he informs her, still businesslike. He walks to the table, takes the chair across from her and continues, "Ronald Weasley was hardly any kind of romantic match for you, be it intellectually or for that matter, personality-wise. One cannot deny that he isn't exactly… shall we say… the sharpest quill in the drawer? He might require some assistance coming to terms with certain other facts as well."

Hermione grits her teeth. "Other facts, Sir?" she manages, barely able to contain her temper.

"For one thing, he no longer has any obligations towards you. Therefore he does not need to owl you, particularly if doing so upsets Miss Brown. He isn't doing anyone any favours this way, least of all himself."

Hermione gulps, but finds no words to reply. How does Snape even known that Ron is seeing Lavender again? Even Molly isn't aware of that yet; at least not to Hermione's knowledge. 

Snape waves a dismissive hand. "But back to more important matters," he says. "You have been studying very diligently these past few weeks. Would you by any chance be interested in helping me research something a tad more challenging?"

"Yes," Hermione says quickly. "Yes, of course."

~*~

Hermione fully intends to answer Ron's Owl, if only to tell him that he shouldn't feel obligated to stay in touch, no matter what his family has to say on the matter, but somehow she never gets around to doing it. 

Her days are long and filled with study, research and to her pleasant surprise, engaging conversations with Snape. She never seems to find any spare time to sit down and compose a letter. 

Perhaps, she decides, she'll just send a Christmas card instead.

The Holiday season is almost upon them. 

It'll be Hermione's first Christmas alone, and even though she still misses her parents every day, in some way she's actually looking forward to it.

Despite the fact that Molly and Arthur treated her as one of their own, she was starting to feel increasingly out of place at the Weasleys', especially at family gatherings, with all those happy couples and young children around.

Hermione fully expects Molly to send a hamper filled to the brim with mince pies, small Christmas puddings, maybe even some turkey. After all, she does the same thing for Charlie. He lives in Bulgaria and isn't always able to join his family in winter. 

Hermione smiles. Such a hamper would be very nice. It would remind her of home; the bright sides of home, without the clingy, suffocating aspect. 

An abrupt crash makes her look up from her thick book. Cartwright bursts into the room, clutching a small pine tree under his left arm.

"I thought you might appreciate some festive decorations," he says, smiling. The moonlight seeping through the crack in the door reflects on his sharp white teeth, making them look like something out of a tacky cartoon.

She smiles back and tries not to shudder. _Really, he means well,_ and she's quite convinced now that he's completely harmless.

"You know, Miss Granger," he says, sounding somewhat hesitant. "If you don't mind me saying so, I believe Master Snape might appreciate…"

Hermione blinks. "Yes?"

"The… er…. pleasure of your company on Christmas Eve."

Hermione stares at him, dumbfounded. Is the man making some kind of a joke? Do vampires even possess a sense of humour? She decides they must. After all, they used to be human once. 

"I beg your pardon?" she says.

"I usually spend Christmas Eve with my friends," he offers. "It's… a way to reminisce, if you like. Whereas Master Snape, he usually spends December 24th by himself; working as he always does."

"Oh."

"He has been working awfully hard lately, wouldn't you agree?"

Hermione nods slowly.

"Sometimes I suspect he might be overdoing it, but it's not my place to comment, so I don't. Besides, he's hardly the type of man to take kindly to advice."

Hermione smiles.

"But perhaps," Cartwright continues, "you might be able to persuade him to take a much-needed break? After all, it is Christmas; or it will be."

Hermione doesn't reply straight away. She doesn't have any actual plans yet; she thought she'd have a quiet meal and then catch up on some reading. She ordered a few novels from a Muggle bookstore in London. Snape didn't exactly figure into her plans. They merely share a house, and while they may have become something akin to friends, they aren't exactly close.

Not that Hermione would mind if they were. Quite the opposite. If anything, the past few weeks have taught her that the schoolgirl crush she once had on the man hasn't exactly disappeared, only lain dormant. _Bugger._ It's quite inconvenient, really, but so long as she doesn't reveal those feelings or-heaven forbid-acts on them, she assumes it'll be all right. What he doesn't know won't disgust him. 

"He rather likes you, you know," Cartwright says pointedly. "He doesn't merely tolerate your presence, like he does mine. "

With that, he flashes her another toothy grin and quietly exits the room.

Hermione doesn't know how long she stands there, mouth wide open, uncharacteristically speechless.

_Snape likes her? What does that even mean?_

~*~

The following weeks fly by even faster than the previous ones did, and all the while, Cartwright's remark still keeps haunting her. No matter how determinedly she focuses on her work, it niggles at the back of her mind day and night.

_"He rather likes you, you know."_

Nonetheless, she doesn't mention it again.

Neither does he. On some days, that's a relief. On others, it's nothing short of inconvenient. It simply goes against her nature to settle for not having all the answers.

After doing a lot of thinking and tossing a few coins for good measure-even today, that's the closest Hermione Granger would ever willingly get to Divination-she decides to take the vampire's advice.

Her personal feelings aside, Snape does deserve a break and really, no one should have to work on Christmas Eve if they don't absolutely have to.

So with a little help from the elf, she arranges dinner. 

She was right about the hamper; well, for the most part. What arrived was a box and there was no turkey inside, just a large helping of sweets, scones and strawberry jam to accompany the mince pies and pudding. 

The elf was rather distraught when the big parcel arrived. 

In simple English combined with a few Romanian words Hermione had managed to pick up, she reassured the creature numerous times that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the food here and that no, she didn't ask for a survival package because she was afraid she might starve otherwise; this sort of gesture was just what Molly Weasley did.

Hermione has reasons to believe Severus Snape would be opposed to anything too elaborate or fancy. So the Christmas dinner she puts together with the elf's help is a simple British home cooked meal; stuffed turkey, roasted potatoes and parsnips, with peas, carrots and Brussels sprouts on the side.

The only luxury item on the menu is a vintage Port. It's odd to think of Snape not only enjoying a Muggle beverage but actually preferring it to Firewhiskey. Not that she's complaining. Port is far easier to find in these parts, and considerably less pricey.

~*~

A few hours later, Hermione ventures down to the basement. She takes a deep breath and knocks at the laboratory door. It's locked, as always.

Snape appears almost immediately. He looks mildly irritated at the intrusion, but still allows himself to be led to the dining room, without protest.

"Christmas dinner," Hermione says, feeling nervous and a little out of her league while she gestures around the room.

Snape almost smiles. "Interesting, Miss Granger," he says, eyeing the spread on the table with something akin to approval. "Most interesting."

~*~

No carols are sung and not a single cracker is pulled. There aren't even any presents to exchange. 

None of that matters, though. This is easily the most enjoyable Christmas Eve Hermione has had in years. The food is delicious and the conversation pleasant. In fact, the occasional silences are nice, too. 

It's a refreshing change to be able to quietly sit at a table with someone and not feel this constant pressure to speak. She never understood why some people seem so terrified of silence or why not talking often elicits a chorus of: "Why are you so quiet? What's wrong?"

Snape doesn't seem to mind one bit. The two of them are very similar in that respect. 

When she stops to think about it-something Hermione has been doing rather often lately, perhaps a bit more frequently than is wise-she can only acknowledge that between them, they share quite a few common traits. 

They're both intelligent, solitary beings who always think before they act and who at the end of the day want to do the right thing, whatever the cost.

"Well," Snape says, breaking another comfortable silence, "I should thank you, Miss Granger, for providing me with the first agreeable Christmas celebration in many years."

Blushing slightly, she blurts out, "Did you celebrate it at Hogwarts?" 

Only too late, does she realise that her question is bordering on tactless. 

Snape sneers, but to her immense relief, without malevolence. "Albus did have this rather annoying habit of trying to spread seasonal cheer and dragging everyone into the festivities, forcefully if needed. Sentimental old fool; I suppose he meant well."

She gives him a melancholic smile. She knows he still misses Dumbledore-they all do-and she imagines the horrible act he was forced to carry out that night still weights heavily on his heart and conscience.

"Right," he says. "I believe it's time for me to retire."

"Back to the lab?" she asks, surprised and disappointed that the evening is already ending.

"No, Miss Granger," he says, his dark eyes shining with amusement. "To sleep."

"Oh," she mumbles.

They rise at the same time. 

Hermione looks up and suddenly feels as though she might get lost in his gaze. There's something about the way he's looking at her; an emotion she can't quite place. The only person who ever looked at her like that before was Viktor; and sometimes Ron, but not very often… 

Her throat goes dry. She feels she ought to say something to diffuse the awkwardness of the moment, but soon finds she cannot speak.

"Hermione?" he says, quirking an eyebrow. "Is everything all right?"

"What? Yes, of course," she replies, feeling light-headed and giddy, all of a sudden. Did he just call her by her first name, or was that only her imagination? She can't be certain, but she does notice how close they're standing, and he still has this strange, indefinable expression on his face; it's almost as though he's waiting for something; no, anticipating it.

She takes a deep breath.

Perhaps it's the Port making her bolder than usual or perhaps it's the magic of the moment, but without another thought, she leans forward, closes the remaining distance between them and kisses him.

Before she can analyse or regret her action, she realises he's kissing her back.

~*~

His bedroom is nothing like she imagined. Not that she ever consciously allowed her mind to wander to… 

_No. Perish the thought!_

Back when she was sixteen, infatuated and eager to impress her Potions Professor, her daydreams never went beyond a stolen kiss after class or a fiery embrace in some deserted corridor.

She was so innocent back then; so naïve too when it came to matters of the heart. 

Sometimes she misses those days.

She glances around the room once more. It's spacious and sparsely decorated; practically bare aside from the antique lamp and the neat pile of books on the bedside tale. 

"Hermione?"

She looks up. It's odd-bizarre, almost-to hear him call her by her first name, though admittedly, 'Miss Granger' would hardly be appropriate in these circumstances.

"If you're having second thoughts, Hermione…"

She quickly shakes her head, and takes a few steps closer to him. 

"No," she replies in a shaky voice. "Not at all. It's just been a while since I last..." Her gaze rests on his lips. She lets out a nervous cough.

"Indeed." He smiles wryly. "Just a little over a decade, in my case." 

Before she can figure out how to reply to that, or even wonder who his previous lover might have been, he leans down and kisses her. 

It's only a brief brushing of lips, a taste of more to come if she'll allow it. 

She can't help think that this a welcome change. Ron was always so over-eager. He couldn't wait to get naked; the walking, talking cliché of a typical teenage boy. 

_No,_ she admonishes herself. _No thinking about him or about the past. Not anymore._

Snape takes her hand and leads her to the large bed. He whispers something under his breath and instantly, the room is enveloped in near-darkness. Only the soft glow from the small lamp remains.

Sparkling eyes search her face. For any sign of doubt, she presumes. 

There is none to be found. 

"I've always considered you fascinating," she says, hoping he won't mind such forwardness. He's not a man who responds well to compliments. He seldom takes them in the spirit they're intended.

"You're a remarkable young woman," he replies, his tone unusually gentle. "I'm not entirely certain what I've done to deserve you, but far be it from me to complain."

Suddenly blushing furiously, she sits down and stares at her lap. His pale, bony hands-they're softer than she expected-cup her cheeks and make her face him again. 

She tries to think of something to say; anything that might stop her from seeming so foolish and inexperienced. She's neither, _honestly._ 

Well, all right, perhaps she is more or less bumbling her way through this, but who can blame her? She has yearned for him for years. It's more than a little overwhelming to finally have him so close and wanting her, too. 

Before she can speak, however, he sits down next to her and his mouth finds hers again. He's an amazing kisser. In truth, she expected him to be more… reserved in these matters, but she's far from disappointed to be proven wrong for once. 

He carefully unbuttons her dress. It's the prettiest one she owns. She wore it especially for him. She wasn't planning to seduce him tonight-not really-but she did want to look her best. _Still eager to impress, even after all those years._

His hands pause at the fastenings of her bra. "May I?" 

"Yes."

He removes the offending garment and leans down to kiss her breasts. 

She can't help the pleasurable sigh that escapes her lips. 

"Enjoying yourself, Hermione?" he asks with a low chuckle.

"Mmm," she whispers, slowly growing bolder. "This isn't entirely fair, though."

"Indeed?"

"You… _oh_"-she gasps as his tongue flicks over her right nipple-"you're still fully dressed. You have me at… mmm… quite a disadvantage here."

"Ah." He smirks. "Well, I'm certain that can be remedied." He gets up, disrobes, and neatly folds his clothes on an armchair next to the bed.

Wide-eyed, she watches him. He's not attractive in the traditional sense of the word, but there is something about him that's completely irresistible to her; an enticing aura of knowledge, power and just the right amount of mystery. He's easily the most enchanting man she has ever met.

He walks back to the bed and resumes his earlier activities. 

He moves her dress, which is now completely undone, aside, and kisses a trail down her neck. 

She lies back, resting her head against the large pillow, and closes her eyes. His mouth is warm and soft and utterly perfect. She silently reminds herself not to make a sound, but then realises it doesn't matter. No one can hear her here; no one who isn't supposed to. 

Carefully, he pulls her knickers down and drops them to the floor next to the bed. 

He leans down and plants a wet, open-mouthed kiss between her legs. His tongue slowly slides over her clit. 

Hermione gaps. No one has ever done that before. She lets out a deep, needy moan and reaches for him, grabbing hold of his shoulders.

A long finger enters her; then another. 

She starts rocking against them, back and forth. The combination of his tongue and fingers feels too good for words. _Sweet Merlin,_ she hasn't been this turned on in a very long time, perhaps never. Her heart hammers against her ribcage. If he keeps this up, it won't be long before she… 

But then, without warning and for no reason she can think of, he sits up again and pulls his hand back. 

Hermione blinks, and fights the urge to whimper. 

"Just a moment," he says. He reaches for the wand he placed on the bedside table and mutters something she doesn't quite catch.

"What did you just…?" she asks, even more confused.

"A contraceptive spell, Hermione," he says simply.

"Oh. Of course," she mumbles, feeling foolish and irresponsible. Maybe the Port has messed with her sense of clarity, and she didn't even drink that much.

He doesn't say anything further, just scoots closer again and kisses her forehead. His right hand moves back between her legs. 

Hermione reaches out to touch him anywhere she can. Her left hand caresses his back, and when her right hand reaches for his cock, it occurs to her that she hasn't really touched him yet, not as intimately as he has been touching her. _Oh dear, what mustn't he think of me?_

"Are you ready?" he asks, his breathing ragged. 

"Yes," she whispers, still slightly astonished at how gentle and considerate he is being. She lifts her hips a little and repeats, "Yes."

He kisses her again, deeply, hungrily, and then carefully pushes himself inside. 

She grits her teeth. He isn't hurting her, exactly, but _God_, it really has been a while, hasn't it? 

As though he can sense her mild discomfort, he moves very slowly at first, his right hand travelling down to rub her clit while he thrusts.

Their mouths meet in delicious, lingering kisses while their bodies move together, falling into a slow, steady rhythm until she's not only comfortable, but also left wanting more; so much more from him.

"Could we"-she swallows a moan-"go a bit faster?"

He obliges, without a word.

She moans and sighs and the familiar tension inside her begins to build. 

She arches her back, and when he pushes inside her again, hard, fast, deep and just _there_, she almost screams. Her orgasm crashes down on her and she clings to him fiercely, never wanting this to end. 

Through her blissful haze, she's dimly aware of him continuing to thrust in and out of her, and she looks up just in time to see his face contort in pleasure. He doesn't make a sound when he comes. She wasn't really expecting anything else.

With a gentleness she never would have associated with him, not before tonight, he kisses her chin before he slips out and rolls off her.

She swallows hard, takes a deep breath, wipes a strand of hair from her forehead, and glances up at the ceiling. 

She can see fast flickering shadows. She can hear the wind outside, whistling through the high trees.

She doesn't want to be one to speak first. She isn't scared, exactly, but definitely uncertain. She hasn't a clue how to act after….

This has all happened rather fast, and perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps she was too forward and she has ruined their wonderful working relationship. 

Maybe he'll send her away now, make her return to Britain because certain lines were crossed that oughtn't have been.

The thought of having to go back makes her shudder.

Visibly, it turns out.

"Hermione," a hoarse voice next to her says, "are you cold?"

She turns her head to look at him. "No. I'm fine."

"Well, perhaps you should get under the covers regardless. It is quite chilly. I've been meaning to have something done about the insulation in this house."

She smiles; so he wants her to stay. "All right." 

She covers herself with the warm sheets and scoots closer to him, resting her head on his chest. 

"Good night," he whispers, and with a wave of his hand, the room turns completely dark.

"Wandless magic." She chuckles. "I had no idea."

"It would appear that this has been a night of many surprises, Hermione."

"Mm," she murmurs, closing her eyes. 

He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and it doesn't take long before she falls asleep, a contented smile on her face. 

~*~

Hermione looks out of the living room window and sighs happily. 

It's snowing. Large flakes flutter down and land on the thick white blanket already covering the ground. She hasn't seen a white Christmas in years. This only makes the present day even more perfect.

Through her reverie, she vaguely hears the sound of a door clicking shut. 

"Good morning, Miss Granger," a familiar voice says.

She turns around. Cartwright is standing there, looking quite chuffed. He's wearing a specially designed suit to shield him against the perils of daylight. The outfit was her idea, and in these cold temperatures, he can easily wear it around town without being questioned. 

He looks like a skier, which may be a bit odd-the nearest resort is many miles away-and the helmet he left out in the hallway is a little over the top but still hardly suspicious; certainly nothing anyone would associate with a vampire.

"Happy Christmas," he offers.

"Yes, Alastair," she replies, unable to stop the wide smile from spreading across her face. "Yes. It is."


End file.
